


Stars Beneath His Skin

by ElloPoppet



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mind Meld, Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spiced Peaches 56, Sweet, Tattoos, Telepathy, Tenderness, Touching, assholes in love, spones - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-15 20:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18676981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElloPoppet/pseuds/ElloPoppet
Summary: On the white piece of paper was a smattering of small, black dots. McCoy turned the paper, in search of a pattern or alignment of some kind but not finding even a trace. The dots appeared to be drawn at random or rather, McCoy noticed as he squinted, printed. He looked up at where Spock was standing over him and returned a cocked eyebrow of his own.“If you need help cracking some kind of code, this isn’t exactly my specialty, genius.”Rather than banter back, Spock responded immediately and smoothly. “It is not a code. That is the alignment of stars that would have been visible in the night sky from Earth should one have been standing at the coordinates where my Mother was born at the moment of the occurrence.” Silence blanketed the room, McCoy not having a goddamn clue how to respond to that. Luckily, Spock wasn’t finished.“I wish to memorialize her with what most races would call a tattoo, and I would like your help with the matter.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks!
> 
> This was my entry into the Spiced Peaches e-zine, issue 56. I want to say thank you to elenorasweet for beta-reading my original entry! You da best. 
> 
> Live long and prosper!

“Doctor, if I could make a request?"

McCoy looked up from his stack of PADDS, too exhausted to feel anything stronger than a niggle of curiosity at seeing Spock standing straight in the middle of his open office door. It was well into the Gamma shift; with both Spock and McCoy being on Alpha rotation for the month, he knew that Spock should be asleep, at the very least meditating if he wanted to be refreshed for the bridge in a few hours. 

McCoy pushed the realization that this thought was hypocritical away because. Well. Now was not the time of night for introspection, dammit. 

“What can I do for you, Spock?” McCoy signed off on the annual physical that he had been reviewing, setting the PADD aside before leaning back in his chair. His bones creaked and cracked, a joint popping in the deep recesses of his spine. Spock rose one of those harsh eyebrows in response to the sounds; McCoy shot him his very best threatening glare and was internally delighted when Spock declined to comment on the auditory evidence of his aging and aching body. 

When Spock reached McCoy’s desk, he removed one arm from behind his back and presented a square of paper forward, extending it out for the taking. McCoy took it without hesitation; the days were long gone of which he would pause before accepting things from Spock. He now did so without question, and often with eager curiosity and vigor. It was something that he chose not to observe too closely. 

On the white piece of paper was a smattering of small, black dots. McCoy turned the paper, in search of a pattern or alignment of some kind but not finding even a trace. The dots appeared to be drawn at random or rather, McCoy noticed as he squinted, printed. He looked up at where Spock was standing over him and returned a cocked eyebrow of his own. 

“If you need help cracking some kind of code, this isn’t exactly my specialty, genius.”

Rather than banter back, Spock responded immediately and smoothly. “It is not a code. That is the alignment of stars that would have been visible in the night sky from Earth should one have been standing at the coordinates where my Mother was born at the moment of the occurrence.” Silence blanketed the room, McCoy not having a goddamn clue how to respond to that. Luckily, Spock wasn’t finished. 

“I wish to memorialize her with what most races would call a tattoo, and I would like your help with the matter.”

McCoy’s rested eyebrow joined his other, slowly crawling upward towards his hairline. “Vulcan’s can’t be tattooed, Spock. You know that, because I learned it from you during one of your more...enlightening lectures about how I am ignorant and uneducated when it comes to your kind.”

“Were.”

“Excuse me?”

“You were ignorant and uneducated when it came to Vulcan physiology. Through no fault of your own, surely. You cannot be held accountable for Vulcan secrecy when it comes to our biological functions. In the interest of being honest, there were times in the beginning of our working relationship where I found myself impressed that you were as well acquainted with Vulcan medical knowledge as you were.” McCoy assumed that Spock was thinking back to their time on Altamid. He knew that he was. 

McCoy snorted. “But I’m so much more educated and knowledgeable now because I’ve had you as my own personal teacher, is that right?”

Years ago, McCoy might have missed the twitch, the small hint of a smile at the corners of Spock’s lips. These days, he sought it out and was gratified to find it now. 

“I said no such thing,” Spock replied coolly. “If we could refocus to the matter at hand?” Spock pointedly gazed down to the paper holding the star pattern still gripped in McCoy’s hands. 

“Right. So. You told me once that Vulcan’s skin won’t hold the ink of tattoos, and that they are culturally looked down upon anyway, so I’m kind of confused as the what you’re askin’ me for here, Spock.”

Spock’s features smoothed. “You seem to forget that I am genetically half human as well, Doctor. Both physically and, as you like to remind me so frequently, emotionally as well. I find myself seeking a way to honor my Mother somehow, and I am quite drawn to the permanency of this idea, an eternal mark in remembrance of the day her life began. As for how this gesture may be viewed by others, it is not my intent for others to have knowledge of the matter, beyond yourself of course.”

McCoy felt something, then. Internally at first, and that realization caused the sensation to bleed into the atmosphere of the room and in the blink of an eye, the moment felt important. This wasn’t First Officer Spock coming to him with an Enterprise request. This wasn’t Starfleet business. This wasn’t a game of chess played because living on a projectile in the middle of space for four years became tedious and boring and repetitive at times and one of them was starting to feel it in their bones. 

This was Spock coming to Leonard for a favor that was so personal that the air was thick and heavy with the intimacy, the sheer vulnerability of the request, and McCoy lost his breath for a moment within the maelstrom of his shock.

“Tell me how to make it possible,” he heard himself say, and when Spock’s shoulders relaxed a fraction of an inch, McCoy was able to draw air into his lungs once more. The rush of oxygenation to his blood made him dizzy and perhaps he should have been sleeping after all. 

“I believe with the darkest matter ink and perhaps a deeper subcutaneous injection than is typical, the flesh should hold the color stain,” Spock explained. “It may require multiple applications, as my Vulcan cells may eject much of the ink initially. However, I am amenable to the circumstances.”

McCoy thought to his own experience of getting tattooed, small smudged things hidden by his clothes done in his youth which were now faded to practically nothing. Those were done the standard way, and those had not been pleasant. 

“It’ll hurt, Spock.”

“I am amenable to the circumstances,” Spock repeated, meeting McCoy’s gaze dead on. “There is little that you could say to cause me to withdraw my request, short of stating your own discomfort in performing the act.”

McCoy shook his head instantly. “No, hold your horses, your sehlats, what have you. I’ll do it, s’long as you know that it’ll be unpleasant and I’m not planning on goin’ easy on ya either. If I do it. I’m gonna do it right. I can pick up some equipment on shore leave next week, watch some tutorials and get some practice in. You’ll have to be patient, I’ve never had to do anything like this before. You’re lucky it’s just dots, anything more and you’d have to have someone else do it.”

“Then it would have remained a desire, Doctor. I am glad that you are willing to assist me. It is much appreciated.” Spock went so far as to tilt his head in a small bow, causing McCoy to flush and try to hide the sound of his swallow with a scowl, which didn’t even make sense inside his own tired brain. It took a few moments for McCoy to realize that Spock had turned to leave, and he stood himself, fumbling with his words, with a question that he had but didn’t know how to properly ask. 

“Hey, Spock! You gonna just leave me hangin’, wondering why you chose me of all the people on this ship? And don’t say it’s because I’m the doctor here, because I’m not the only doctor and I don’t even think I’m your favorite on the ship, to be honest. And I don’t even think you really like doctors, anyway.” McCoy snapped his mouth shut quickly before he went on. He glared at Spock’s hands, which were folded behind the back of his science blues, one hand perfectly grasping the wrist of this other, a form which McCoy had seen employed countless times. 

Spock turned back slowly until they were again facing one another. 

“You do understand that during this process, I will be experiencing pain while you are in contact with my skin and likely even my blood?” Spock asked with very little inflection. McCoy nodded, urging Spock to continue. 

“My ability to control my touch telepathy will likely suffer, as I will be under not only physical but also emotional duress. I will need to be prepared for the likelihood that my shields will be weakened, that I will be emoting my own thoughts and feelings as well as receiving those of the individual on the other side of this experience. Had you also taken this into consideration prior to your agreement, Leonard?”

The sensation of falling that sliced through McCoy’s nervous system at the sound of his name being uttered by that voice was entirely reason enough for him to be honest, to admit that hell no, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Spock being able to get a read on his thoughts and/or most basic output of emotions while having his hands on the hobgoblin? Being in Spock’s personal space, sharing such a fueled and private experience? Hell, McCoy was likely going to be trying not to hyperventilate, wax poetic over the damn green blooded alien in his head the whole time, or else be preoccupied with trying to conjure up the least sexy thoughts he possibly could lest his mind wander to more sinister and less appropriate places during the whole shindig. 

If he lied and told Spock that of course he had already thought about the telepathy and everything was still a go, there was a large chance that he would blow his cover and the fact that he was head-over-ass smitten with the First Officer, and had been for years, would come to light. If he admitted that he hadn’t thought about it and withdrew his acquiescence, it would mean that Spock would likely not ask anyone else and his skin would be left unmarred with this dedication to his Mother that he had obviously spent a lot of time, thought, and feeling toward. 

Fucking Vulcan.

“Course I considered it, Spock. Risk is all yours. Not my problem if you learn somethin’ about me that you find...unsavory to your delicate sensibilities. Might work out in the long run, if there’s a chance that I can find out somethin’ juicy about you, on the other hand. I wouldn’t turn down the chance at havin’ some blackmail to hang over your pointy lil ears.” McCoy tried his hand at a smile. Spock’s eyes flickered down to his mouth and back to match his gaze. 

“Well then. You have your answer. I consider the idea of sharing this experience with any other to be untoward and, as you worded it, unsavory to my sensibilities-”

“I believe I said your ‘delicate’ sensibilities, Spock.”

“-and I have decided that there is nothing that I should mind you knowing about me, anymore. If that will be all Doctor, I must meditate prior to the start of my shift. If I may, I do suggest you try to sleep as soon as possible. Sleep deprivation diminishes your productivity by approximately seventeen point three two percent.”

With that, Spock saw his way out of McCoy’s office. McCoy chose not to take offense at the numbers Spock spouted prior to his departure, and instead decided to be amused over the fact that Spock would never know that something he had said managed to keep McCoy awake even longer into the early morning than he would have been otherwise.

 _“...there is nothing that I should mind you knowing about me,_ anymore.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Two hundred and thirteen dots, Spock. Two hundred. And thirteen.” McCoy didn’t look up from his own hands, watching them as they carefully withdrew the tissue-thin stencil paper from the paper-replicating printer in the Surgical Lab in the back of Medical. The dots standing in for stars stared up at him from the paper, violently purple, exactly how he had wanted them. The tattoo artist that he had spent a few days with on Strvyanse had a machine that printed stencils in blue, however McCoy had been nervous that the green of Spock’s blood would blur with the color too much, and he didn’t want to miss a single star. If he was going to do it, he would do it correctly. 

“Why are you not using laser tech, man?” The artist had asked him, perplexed as he held up a sleek and small instrument that was no larger than a pen. “Be a lot cheaper than an antique machine. Lot less painful, too.”

McCoy couldn’t remember what kind of bullshit he had made up on the spot. Or why he had made up anything at all. He just knew that it hadn’t felt right to tell him that he would be tattooing a Vulcan. That was Spock’s business, was all. Not his to share. All he knew was that he was glad to have found someone who had been around long enough to know their craft while at the same time being easy enough to pay under the table for some quick and dirty lessons in the old-school technique. The guy had seemed weary, a little less so after McCoy explained that he was in fact a physician and also that he would be doing nothing more than a fuckton of dots. A week after Spock had approached him with his request, McCoy was back on the Enterprise with equipment and rudimentary knowledge of how to make a tattoo gun function. 

And there they were, two weeks after that, standing side by side in the Surgical Lab as McCoy printed out his fifth and final intended stencil. 

“I am aware, Doctor. I recreated the star pattern by hand after studying many detailed sky maps. It is reassuring to know that you have become so well acquainted with the design, however, so I will choose to believe that it is for that reason you are sharing stated information and not because you have already begun complaining about the process of which we are preparing to embark upon.” When McCoy looked up to snap back, Spock’s eyes were shining, and like a horse’s hindquarters if McCoy was going to say anything to snuff out that light. He shut his mouth and settled for a glare instead. 

“Why have you created so many stencils?” Spock asked, genuine curiosity evident in his tone. McCoy cleared his throat and motioned Spock toward the operating table that was brightly lit in the center of the small lab. McCoy had spent the early hours of the morning setting up the space, having put a sign on the door indicating that the lab was closed due to a chemical spill, and despite knowing full well that the lock codes could only be overridden by Jim he walked to the door to double check them anyway. When he turned to re-approach Spock, he was disrobing, pulling his black undershirt up over his head, and McCoy’s mouth was sapped of all moisture.

“It’s ah. Just in case I don’t put it on right the first time, or if you want it somewhere different than where I put it. You gotta make sure it’s perfect before we start, in case it sticks. The point is the permanence, right? You got an idea of where you want it?” McCoy double sheathed his hands with two pairs of black latex gloves as he spoke, focusing his eyes anywhere other than on the miles and miles of Spock’s exposed flesh laid out before him where Spock stood in front of the table. 

“I would like it on my back, in between my shoulder blades. I believe this placement would provide a smooth and expansive layout.”

McCoy nodded in agreement. “Well, on your stomach then, arms at your sides or folded under your head, and be still.”

Spock complied, choosing to flatten his arms at his sides, and aside from McCoy uttering a few words of warning as he spritzed and shaved the fine hairs that grew on Spock’s back, silence was heavy in the room and Spock didn’t move a muscle, not even as McCoy gently applied the stencil and pressed feather-lightly against Spock’s dampened skin. Goosebumps rose against the underside of Spock’s skin and McCoy held his breath, using his knuckle to flatten the thin paper against Spock’s spine. Only when the small, fine bumps smoothed out did he peel the paper away, revealing hundreds of violet pinpricks against Spock’s brilliantly pale back. The contrast left McCoy unsettled.

“Well, Doctor?”

“Right. Go, here, take this mirror and check it out for yourself. There’s a bigger mirror against the back wall there, see what you think. I’ll get everything else ready. Now’s the only time you’ll ever hear me say this willingly, Mr. Spock; please, be picky about this. I’ll move it however you want me to, ya hear?”

Spock nodded once and disappeared from the table, and McCoy went about preparing the tattoo gun, notching the needle an extra millimeter further than he’d been shown to account for the additional layer of skin that he would need to pierce through. He estimated that this should be enough; he feared that it wouldn’t be. 

“I find the placement to be quite aesthetically pleasing and also well balanced. Well done, and on your first try. Please, continue.” Spock’s voice startled McCoy out of his own head and back into the moment, where Spock was sliding back into position onto the operating table. 

Well, that was it, then. 

“Okay. As you’re well aware, I only have a touch of an idea what I’m doin’ here. You’re gonna feel me rubbing some vaseline onto your back, it’ll help the needle glide a bit more smoothly. The dots are small, but I’ll still have to move the needle a bit to get it to mark. The needle moves fast so you’ll hear the machine hum, but it’s a quiet model so it shouldn’t be too loud. I don’t know how much you’ll bleed, if at all, and I don’t know how much it’ll hurt, but it certainly won’t tickle. If you need me to stop, you better speak up, dammit. You hear me?”

Spock didn’t speak, choosing instead to nod. The overhead lights reflected off of the black inkiness of his hair, and McCoy ignored the ache to touch, as he always did. McCoy knew it was nerves. He knew Spock’s quirks enough to be confident in these things. 

“Alright, cowboy. Let’s kick off this rodeo, then.”

McCoy didn’t bother with a countdown. He rubbed the greasy vaseline across the expanse of Spock’s back, doing his very best to clear his mind, thinking about his actions as medically as possible as he dipped the needle into the ink and used his foot to apply pressure to the pedal on the machine. It vibrated softly in his hand and purred to life and he leaned forward, using his left hand to pull at the skin on Spock’s shoulder as he lowered the needle. 

McCoy breathed. Spock did not. The needle made contact and sank like butter into Spock’s flesh, meeting with such soft resistance as McCoy dipped into the smallest circular motion before retracting. Spock hadn’t moved a muscle, and McCoy softly wiped away the excess dot of black ink that welled at the surface. A streak of dark green came away with it.

_Fuck._

“Obscenities already, Doctor?” Spock spoke, and McCoy closed his eyes. 

_Double fuck._

“Well, first of all, you’re a bleeder, because nothin’s ever easy with you. Second, that pretty green blood of yours isn’t a fan of the ink, like we figured, and it’s already almost gone. Gonna have to make another pass, if not a few. How did it feel?”

“It barely felt like anything.”

“Is that right? Because the obscenities were in my head, Spock.”

“Ah. Well, you must have been projecting them loudly, because I was not speaking falsely.”

McCoy mumbled under his breath and readied the machine. Spock’s body tensed slightly at the sound, and when the needle rounded over the same spot once more, Spock’s voice whispered into McCoy, as though Spock’s lips were ghosting into his ear.

_“That was a slightly less pleasant sensation.”_

“That was a slightly less pleasant sensation,” Spock voiced aloud.

“Yeah, got that. Two way street, loud and clear Mr. Spock,” McCoy gritted out, “ready for a third go? It should be the last one. For this star, at least. And then only two hundred twelve more to go. Or, well, six hundred thirty six, if my math’s right.”

“Please, continue.”

McCoy’s assessment proved to be correct. After clearing the blood and applying a third layer of ink to the same small, circular spot, there finally lay a dark black dot on the upper left side of Spock’s back. It stood out, glaring, the skin around it angry and bruised looking, red and rashy mixed with streaks of dark green. 

“You alright?” McCoy asked, hesitant to continue without checking in.

“I can tell from your satisfaction that you’ve achieved what you were hoping for. Please, Doctor. Continue.”

And so McCoy did what was asked of him. He continued in short bursts, creating little pockets of blackness on Spock’s skin, three coats at a time separated by seconds of wiping away droplets of blood. Slowly, one star became three, and then five, and then a dozen. By this time, a large portion of Spock’s back was furious, the flesh looking damaged and inflamed. McCoy couldn’t help but wonder if the pain that was pressing into him was heightened empathy, or telepathy, not until a vivid flash made its way behind his eyelids uninvited. 

 

Amanda, in thin and flowing white robes, pouring what looked like an iced drink from a pitcher and extending it toward him. Toward him? No. Toward Spock.

_“You don’t have to pretend to bear the heat as well as the rest of them, dear. Not with me, you don’t. I made you lemonade. Real lemons, how you like it, from California, on Earth. Not the replicated kind. Our secret.”_

McCoy’s stomach tightened at Spock’s memory, at the warmth of it as well as the contrasting chill of the absence of her. He tried to focus on what he was doing; star nineteen? Twenty?

His own Father’s voice entered into his mind. Pleading for help toward the end. Asking for mercy. Cracking whispers of gratitude. A last breath. McCoy cleared his throat, needle paused midair. 

“Your Mother sounds like she was very kind.”

Spock’s voice broke in the middle of his response. “You did your Father a kindness, yourself.”

McCoy sat back in the chair, setting the tattoo machine onto the table. “Spock.”

Spock remained quiet. The sadness rolled off of him in waves. McCoy’s stomach roiled, with his own nausea or Spock’s he couldn’t possibly know. All he knew was that he wanted to peel off both layers of his gloves and press his bare hands to Spock’s burning, bleeding, newly scarred skin, to dig in and feel everything closer, fresher, more.

“I believe you would find that would increase my chances of infection, Doctor,” Spock said lowly, and McCoy felt his cheeks heat, instant fire. Spock craned his head back to meet McCoy’s eyes, and even with a telepathic bond thrumming between them, McCoy couldn’t read the plethora of emotion swirling there. 

“I do believe I overestimated my ability to tolerate this experience for such a length of time. Would you be amenable to continuing tomorrow morning?” Spock asked, his voice still small, and McCoy could feel his certainty that he was going to be turned down. It was sour.

“Of course. Same place, same time?”


	3. Chapter 3

The next day was different. McCoy had spent Beta shift the afternoon prior, as well as a fitful night of sleep, mentally preparing himself for the onslaught of sadness that had overwhelmed him the day before upon his return to tattooing Spock. 

What he found, instead, was that Spock was no longer sad. Rather, he was _furious._

“Ensign Ratcliffe has been working under my instruction in the division for four years. I would like to be made privy to his line of thinking when he made the decision to pull the swabs from the surface of TSL-8372 eight-point-three nine two hours earlier than I instructed. Why would he do such a thing?” Spock huffed, apropos of nothing, stripping his blues and undershirt away in one fluid motion before slamming his body down onto the table. McCoy watched him, hands already gloved. He was unable to do anything but watch with a mix of amusement and concern. It was rare to see Spock like this, outwardly displaying his emotions with so much vigor. Most of the time he still tried to maintain that he was perfectly in control of his human side, though McCoy and Jim both recognized that for what it was; utter horseshit.

McCoy opened his mouth to respond that he had no idea why anyone would ever go against Spock’s orders, what with him being infamous for being so anal retentive, but the jest died in his mouth when his eyes skimmed over the smooth, empty canvas of Spock’s back. His gut sank, pulling his heart right along with it. 

“They did not remain?” Spock questioned, and McCoy shifted his gaze to Spock’s from where the latter had craned his neck and was looking back at him, his features schooled back to stoic. Spock didn’t wait for McCoy to respond. “You will have to inject the ink dye beneath an additional layer of dermis. Please adjust your settings, Doctor. I will wait.”

“Spock, it’s gonna hu-”

McCoy jumped as Spock’s curled fist met the metal table with horrific force. The bright scent of Spock’s blood bloomed instantly from his knuckles, and McCoy’s first instinct was to strip the gloves from his hands in haste and settle them, open and wide, on either side of Spock’s lower back. The soft flesh above Spock’s hips warmed his hands and the scars left from Altamid stood out starkly beneath the fingers of his right. 

“Spock.”

Spock drew in a shaky breath.

“S’chn,” McCoy tried, and the skin beneath his hands shivered and quaked with a small huff of laughter. 

“You will never be correct,” Spock said quietly. “It is a statistical impossibility, given your human vocal cords. Your efforts never cease to be valiant, however.” 

It wasn’t an apology, but McCoy could feel the shame and regret rolling off of Spock in waves, and from somewhere within his mind, Spock whispered.

_“Please, Leonard.”_

“C’mon, then. Let’s get that hand fixed up and we’ll figure out a way to get this bastard tattoo to stick.”

*

Spock was still angry, but instead of being something loud and cold, it had simmered into something hot and bubbling. It was easier and more difficult to experience for McCoy once Spock had been cleaned, given a hypo to prevent infection, and wrapped before beginning the process all over again. The bleeding was worse, the pain obviously worse right along with it, and Spock’s telepathy was messy, sticky, and uncontrolled in a way that McCoy had never before experienced. 

Spock’s frustration was molten, feral, and fucking _distracting._

There were shadows of violence beneath Spock’s surface. There weren’t outright flashes or pictures, nothing like McCoy had experienced the day prior, but there were hints of capabilities, of physical power to snap and an animalistic rage to unleash. It existed within all of them, of course it did, and McCoy had seen it within Spock on a few occasions before. Memories of him losing his Mother and snapping on Jim not long after; flashes of the pure moments of burning fury towards Khan from years back when they thought Jim lost to them catapulted around McCoy’s mind.

“I do wish you did not have such recollections of me at my worst, Doctor.” Spock spoke for the first time since giving his approval of the stencil placement before they had gotten started. 

McCoy smiled. “Can’t help it, Spock. Besides, They’re not my worst memories of you. You’re not too bad when you grace us with your human side, after all.”

Spock was silent for a moment. “What are your worst memories of me, if I should be selfish enough to take advantage of the opportunity at hand?”

McCoy paused the needle for a moment, feeling Spock in the atmosphere of his mind, but not prying. He searched and decided upon a moment he quite liked, and pushed with all of his might. He felt a bright burst of yellow, warm amusement break through the red hot anger.

“You can be rather childish for a man of medicine and science, Leonard.”

“What? I don’t like to be beaten, Spock. I’d only been playing chess against Jim during ‘Fleet Academy. He’s fine and all, but losing to you nine games in a row did a number on me. ‘s why I still don’t like you all these years later, didn’t ya know that?” McCoy couldn’t stop himself from smiling, and though he couldn’t see Spock’s face where he was laying, he could feel the corners of Spock’s lips turn up as though they were pressed against his own as they moved.

And that probably wasn’t a good thought to be having at that precise moment. McCoy’s fingers spasmed and he pushed downward, applying more pressure than he had meant. Spock hissed through his teeth, a small and barely perceptible sound, and in an instant McCoy set the tattoo machine down on the side table and snapped his gloves off. 

“Dammit, Spock. I’m sorry. That was stupid of me. Are you alright?”

“It is fine. Do you require a break?”

McCoy laughed, and no telepathy would be required to hear the anxiety and self-deprecation within in. “You just sat like a statue being stabbed with a motorized set of needles for...what...three hundred and sixty times, and you’re asking if I need a break?”

“Your emotional state seems to be approaching a status of overwhelmed, Doctor, and if I’m not mistaken your fingers are cramping.”

“Okay, Mr. Spock, you know what, maybe I do need a break from you bein’ in my head,” McCoy said, ensuring with all of his might not to be snappy. “Good news is, you’re more than halfway done if these last the night. One hundred twenty of these rascal stars down, ninety-three to go. You shouldn’t have to deal with my ‘overwhelming’ feelings past tomorrow.” He started to disassemble the machine, breaking down the parts to go into the enclave for sterilization. 

“Your feelings are not entirely unpleasant, Doctor. I find myself curious about a few of them, in particular, those of affection that correlate with the action that you perceive to be me, smiling.” 

McCoy’s heart skipped a beat in his chest. 

Spock continued as though he didn’t notice, and McCoy heard the sound of him shuffling on the table. McCoy set the machine down and turned, in spite of not wanting to face Spock at that particular moment in time. 

“Do not put your clothes on until I put a dressing on your back. You’ll leave it on for an hour. Jesus, we just did this yesterday. You have the memory of a goldfish.”

Spock shifted back down onto his stomach to allow McCoy to patch his tender back. “It is a misconception that the Earth creature Carassius auratus only has a memory lasting for-”

“Shut it, Spock.”

Silence fell over them as McCoy applied a gauze patch to Spock’s back, though with McCoy’s bare fingers brushing Spock’s painful flesh he could sense that Spock was building to something. 

“There. Again, Leonard. Your words imply annoyance, however, all I feel is affection. Will you please explain?” Spock sat and faced McCoy the moment that McCoy stepped back, task completed. 

McCoy ran a hand through his hair, aware of the smear of green Vulcan blood dried on his palm but finding himself unable to give a single damn.

“Tomorrow, Spock. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

Spock’s eyes were deep, dark pools, pulling McCoy under with their soft scrutiny. McCoy could have drowned, and would have, willingly. How McCoy would put that into words without scaring Spock away from him for their next year on the ship? Hell if he knew. 

“Very well, Leonard. I extend my gratitude to you. For your efforts today, and for tomorrow.”

*

Tomorrow came much faster than McCoy expected, given the feelings of dread and anticipation that seemed to slow and stretch the hours of Spock’s absence. 

McCoy was not a whippersnapper. He was over forty by this point, just so, and he had lived through his fair share of obsessions, flings, love affairs, marriages, crushes, relationships, fancies, whathaveyous. It had only taken a half dozen or so interactions with Spock for him to recognize that the thing blossoming within him would be something different, and nearing five years later, he hadn’t been wrong. Spock had taken him on a ride through the entire whirlwind of human emotion, ironically, through admiration, disdain, annoyance, lust, humility, joy, fear, pain, gratification, desire. McCoy had fought tooth and nail against settling into the spark of white-hot attraction, deep-rooted respect and torturous adoration that ignited at even the mention of Spock’s name after their first year or so on the Enterprise, but by this point, he had learned to embrace it. 

Spock was it for McCoy. It was a fact, something scientific, something that McCoy considered proven at this point, and therefore he had accepted it. He had cataloged it into his life as something that he knew and would know until his dying breath. 

He also suspected that this was not something that would ever be reciprocated. Coming to terms with that hadn’t been as easy to integrate. He wasn’t naive enough to believe that Spock had no indication of his feelings or emotions; he was a touch telepath, though one respectful of boundaries, but that aside Spock was also incredibly perceptive, intelligent, and deductive. There had been moments where McCoy had brazenly held Spock’s gaze when Spock had caught him staring during chess or from across the cafeteria or the bridge. There had been lingering touches, smiles that had slipped beyond McCoy’s control, rushes of blood to his cheeks when McCoy couldn’t help but let his mind wander to fantasy during conversation. 

What he should do, McCoy decided as he prepared to complete Spock’s tattoo, was simply finish the task at hand, clean Spock up, look him in the eye, declare his undying love, and see what happened. 

As it turned out things did not go according to plan. They rarely did for McCoy, where Spock was involved. 

It was a peaceful morning between the two of them during the preparations. Spock silently handed over a steaming mug of black coffee when he stepped into the lab, clutching a mug of spicy smelling tea for himself as he did so. McCoy accepted the warm mug with a smile and Spock’s fingers brushed against his as he took it from him; the warmth that spread between them did so slowly as molasses, bringing with it a burning ache, and oh. 

Spock disrobed silently as well and it wasn’t until he was lying flat on his belly and McCoy was fully prepared and sterilized that he turned toward him. Relief flooded through his body and he opened his mouth to share his celebration, deciding just at the last moment to do so another way, stripping a gloved hand and placing his palm in the center of Spock’s lower back, away from where the smattering of inked stars shone up brightly and starkly from their work yesterday. He could feel Spock pulling from him. 

“Ah. I knew you would find a way to make this a reality for me, Leonard.” Spock’s voice was impossibly soft, and through where McCoy was pressed against him he felt a push rather than a pull, and his breath was stolen from him at the sheer amount of pleased confidence and the heady feeling of _I knew you could do it_ flooded from Spock into him. It was overwhelming, that amount of trust and dignified smugness on his behalf, and McCoy pulled back his hand as though he’d been burned. 

Spock swung himself up into a seated position, fluidly dangling his legs over the side of the table, his spine and shoulders straight. 

“If I may make a request, please set down the machine and deglove your other hand, Leonard.”

There was something in Spock’s eyes, pleading and feral and bright. It betrayed his calm, managed tone, and despite the pounding of his heart in his chest McCoy followed his directions without a second thought. He watched Spock spread his legs slowly, creating a space between his black pants-clad thighs. 

“Come,” Spock whispered, and McCoy’s blood was made of lava, and he thought back to the moment he had been certain they were going to lose Spock to the volcanic underbelly of Nibiru and fuck, hot tears crept their way unbidden into the corners of his eyes as he inched his way into the space between Spock’s thighs. Spock’s legs locked around him, drawing him forward, warm muscles bracing around his waist. Spock didn’t ask if the contact was okay. McCoy knew he didn’t have to. 

Spock’s fingers found their way to McCoy’s face by first tracing up his arm, starting at his wrist above where McCoy’s hand was planted firmly on the stainless steel of the table. When Spock’s long fingers reached his throat McCoy whimpered and closed his eyes. He wished he hadn’t as a soft sigh made its way from Spock’s lips; McCoy wished he could have seen it, the look on Spock’s face as he made that noise, so small and quiet yet thundering. 

A fraction of a centimeter away from McCoy’s psy-points, Spock asked.

“May I?”

“Spock,” McCoy growled, every cell of his body burning up, “I swear on every living thing in this galaxy, if you don’t goddamn hurry it up already-”

“My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts.”

If McCoy’s love for Spock was as deep and consuming as the ocean, Spock’s passion for McCoy was as vast and endless as the universe that consumed them at every given moment. 

McCoy became lost in it in an instant. He was distantly aware of Spock swimming within him, exploring caves and caverns of those memories and moments most coveted and held dear, but McCoy couldn’t be bothered to glance away from the maelstrom before him. 

Through Spock’s eyes, McCoy’s lackluster brown hair shone a spectrum of colors from amber to bistre, and his eyes glistened with a smattering of colors from an artist’s paint palette. McCoy had never heard his own laughter sound so musical, and as he saw flashes of himself moving through Med Bay, or off planet, or simply lounging about the Enterprise off duty he could feel Spock’s pulsating, fierce arousal strumming through him so forcefully that he could no longer discern where he ended and Spock began. 

Spock held moments in his mind that McCoy would believe to be insignificant. McCoy bracing an off-planet child’s leg. McCoy slipping protein powder into the water keg of an old woman’s canteen where there was to be no interference. Small things that McCoy did here, there, everywhere, things that he never thought anybody noticed. Things that he always figured Spock would report if he _had_ noticed. Then there were the moments, where Spock caught him looking. Those memories were tinged with uncertainty, fear, and hope so strong that McCoy couldn’t comprehend how he had ever doubted Spock’s reciprocation. 

“You may not be as intelligent as I’ve suspected, Doctor.”

McCoy couldn’t be certain if the voice was coming from outside of them or within them but he couldn’t have cared less.

“Never call me Doctor again, Spock. Never,” he replied, speaking from outside of himself, and Spock’s fingers moved from his temple then, rested against his lips. When McCoy opened his eyes Spock’s were right there, deep and dark, wanting. 

“Leonard,” Spock said simply, with finality, replacing his fingers with his mouth, his mouth that fit so perfectly slotted against McCoy’s that when the corner’s of Spock’s lips turned up in a smile it went unnoticed, McCoy’s having done the same in tandem. 

*

Later, much later, as years passed, McCoy developed the habit of tracing Spock’s 213 stars with his fingers. Sometimes it would be in the shower, but it was typically when Spock was asleep. McCoy would connect the dots some nights, and others he would simply touch one star or another, sending silent thanks to wherever Amanda was in the universe, or to the universe itself. Because without them, without the elements aligning just right, Spock wouldn’t exist beneath his fingertips, stars beneath his skin.


End file.
